


Young Omega

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Sherlock Stories [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, M/M, Omega John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is an Alpha, who has contracted with a young Omega he barely knows, John. John thinks he’s just an ordinary person; but that’s obviously not true, as Sherlock would not have chosen an ordinary Omega. Just a couple of scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young Omega

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.
> 
> Underage: Omegas who go into heat are considered legal adults, but may still be under 18.

 

Sherlock had gotten the phone call and had dutifully—when was he ever _dutiful_ —set the plans in motion. He heard the taxi stop outside, the doorbell ring, Mrs. Hudson answer. He did not go downstairs. He’d been advised to let John and his mother have their goodbye in private, but from what he could hear (eavesdropping through the ventilation duct) it was hardly emotional or intimate.

He didn’t know how he felt about that. Well, he didn’t care. It was easier if John came to him calm. But something unfamiliar twinged lightly in him, like maybe she _ought_ to be less calm, she _ought_ to show more concern for her son. Then again, Sherlock had met the woman; empathy wasn’t her strong suit. It wasn’t _his_ either, but she didn’t fill the gap with anything else, like intellectual rigor. It made him slightly angry—for John—which was uncomfortable. He put that away to examine later and went back to his microscope, becoming absorbed in the bacterial samples Molly had prepared for him.

After some time Sherlock looked up, with the vague sense that something had disturbed his concentration. A scent made his nose twitch, somehow not unpleasant but he had a very strong desire to discover what it was—maybe because he recognized it as hazardous, without being able to identify it? He _did_ have a fair number of noxious chemicals around—

A knock on the door. Maybe that was what he’d heard before. He _was_ expecting someone, after all. “Come in,” Sherlock called, swiveling away from the kitchen table.

The door to the flat opened slowly, and Sherlock leaned around, trying to see who it was. Well, John, of course. No one else was going to get in, not with the security system he’d installed.

“I said come in,” Sherlock repeated more forcefully, and the boy jumped and hurried over the threshold. “Shut the door.” He did so, automatically twisting the deadbolt shut.

John was fifteen with sandy hair and blue eyes, might get a bit taller but no more than average, athletic but only played in Omega leagues of course, good scholar, well-liked, didn’t get in trouble. All of this Sherlock knew from meeting him before and studying his records. The new thing today was that he’d started his first heat.

He was wearing a baggy jumper but good jeans—dress to impress but also conceal embarrassing physical reactions. Happened at home on the weekend, not at school, so there was that to be thankful for. Wouldn’t see his mother again for at least a week, wouldn’t live in her house ever again. Unless something went wrong, and things did occasionally go wrong—

Twin spots of color appeared on John’s cheeks as Sherlock scrutinized him. Sherlock ought to say something. What did one say now?

“Your room’s upstairs.”

“Oh?” John responded, eyes snapping up to meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock realized they’d been wandering, over _him_ , with _interest_. Only natural, really, but Sherlock found it odd.

“Yes.” The smell that tormented him was, of course, Omega hormones. Foolish not to have realized that. He took a deep breath without meaning to. “You’ll probably want to rest,” he continued abruptly. “Eat whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Mrs. Hudson stocked the kitchen. She’ll be bringing your things.”

“Oh, I’ve—I’ve got everything in the hall,” John replied, pointing vaguely behind himself.

Sherlock frowned. “I mean she’ll go to your house with some movers,” he clarified, annoyed at having to. “You’ve packed everything, I hope.”

“Well—I’ve brought it,” John persisted. He was blushing again, terribly awkward, and Sherlock felt a strong desire to fix things for him. Just to fix things, he liked things to run smoothly, that was all.

Abruptly Sherlock stood, and John became very alert. Fifteen-year-old Omega beginning his first heat, he’d probably get turned on by a bedpost with a nice shape to it, though obviously the Alpha hormones contributed to the mix as well. Why was Sherlock standing? Oh right. He marched up to John and the teen didn’t move away, even when Sherlock reached around him to unlock and open the door. The scent was stronger up close. Well, naturally.

A draft cleared his head for a moment and Sherlock stepped around John to look out in the hall. There were two suitcases, a bursting bookbag, and a paper shopping bag.

“Those are your things?”

“Yes.”

“Those are _all_ your things?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing else to be picked up?”

“No.”

Something was not computing for Sherlock. It seemed like it might be something simple, and he hated that. “Why don’t you have anything else? You’re moving in here. What about your books?”

“Mum said she should keep them, for Harry.” The sibling.

“No, she’s supposed to send everything of _yours_ ,” Sherlock snapped, suddenly angry. “It’s in the contract—“ He stopped when he saw John’s expression. “We’ll get you some new books,” he promised, less severely, and John gave him a tentative smile.

“You’ve got a lot of books here—“ the teen began, looking around.

“Don’t touch them,” Sherlock ordered. “I mean, of course, you may read them,” he corrected, a bit painfully, “but don’t get them out of order. They’re in a particular order.”

John glanced around at the wobbling stacks of books which, more often than not, were _not_ on a bookshelf. “Of course, yeah.”

“Let’s get your things,” Sherlock declared. He’d made a plan for this, why wasn’t it all falling into place?

Sherlock reached for a suitcase, then the backpack. “Oh, I can get that,” John offered, but Sherlock swung it over his shoulder.

“No, I’ve got it. Hand me the bag.”

“I can get that—“

“Then give me the other—“

“I can—“

“John!” Sherlock took a breath, which was calming. “Alright, you bring those two things,” he conceded.

They wound through the living room and the kitchen. “Don’t bother the microscope,” Sherlock warned. “Or any of my experiments.”

“Okay—“

He turned around sharply, banging the backpack into the doorway to the stairs. “I’ll move it off the table,” he promised of the microscope. Though where to, he wasn’t sure. He turned back around and continued up the stairs, hearing John close behind him.

“Here’s your room,” Sherlock pointed out. It was empty and impersonal; he’d been storing things in it until a week ago, when Mrs. Hudson insisted it be cleaned out. Fortuitous, as it wouldn’t have been ready in time otherwise. There was a bed and a chair and a bureau and a lamp. Mrs. Hudson had made the bed, at least, and left extra sheets on it.

“That’s nice,” John responded admirably.

“It’ll do for the moment,” Sherlock corrected critically, putting his bags down in the middle of the bare floor. “I didn’t think you’d need it so soon.” Made no difference of course; he wouldn’t have thought to add anything. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would.

John shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed at his physical development. Well, better get over _that_ soon. “Thanks, it’s… nice,” he repeated awkwardly.

Sherlock turned to leave. “Oh, the loo is here,” he added as an afterthought. “It’s yours, I have my own.”

“Wow, thanks!” This seemed a little more excited. Sherlock remembered there was only one bathroom at John’s house, for three people. Then he left, pounding back down the stairs to the kitchen.

Sherlock started to clear away his microscope, then stopped and went into the living room, looking around with a critical eye. The space suddenly seemed too small for two people, and he rearranged an old sextant, a chipped vase, a tea tin, and some DVD set Mycroft had given him that still had the plastic on it. He put a stack of books on the shelf in their place and felt the room looked much better, until he turned around and realized he now had a sextant, a vase, a tea tin, and a DVD set to put someplace.

Shaking his head he left them on the floor for the moment, possibly forever, and left the flat, thumping down the main stairs. “Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted. He burst into her kitchen and found her messing about at the stove. “John didn’t have any other belongings?” he quizzed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” This was of the utmost importance.

“I sent you a text, dear,” she claimed, dropping balls of a gooey substance from a bowl to a baking sheet.

Sherlock pulled out his phone to check. Oh, so she had. “Well, _why_?” he wanted to know.

“I didn’t want to bother you personally—“ Sherlock growled in frustration and Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “I asked his mother when I should come by, and she told me there was no need,” she shrugged.

“He should have more _things_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “What sorts of things? Clothes. Um…” He found himself at a loss. “Well, books, he hasn’t any books. Go out and get him some.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a tolerant look. “Don’t think he’ll be doing much _reading_ over the next few days,” she pointed out dryly.

“Science fiction, that’s what he likes,” Sherlock continued anyway. “Get him those.”

“Here,” Mrs. Hudson responded instead, handing him a container. “These’ll be more useful for right now.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked dubiously. He pulled the lid off and sniffed at the brown lumps with a frown. “Are they meant to be eaten?”

“They’re energy biscuits,” she explained, ignoring his tone. “Oatmeal, peanut butter, chocolate, raisins. My sister makes them for—“

Sherlock’s grimace cut her off. “You’ve filled the kitchen with food already—“ he complained, then he froze. No, he had to make sure John was fed. And warm. Warmth was imperative. “Have you any more blankets?” he demanded.

“Hall closet, dear,” she told him, unsurprised. “I just washed them—“ Sherlock sprang out the door. “Won’t be going up _there_ with tea any time soon,” she muttered to herself.

Sherlock dumped an armload of blankets, and the cookies, on the couch, then went back to removing his microscope. The closet would do for the moment. Well, he was fermenting something in there, but he could make room. Then he went back to the living room and started rearranging the books. Did he have any science fiction? Plenty of science, not much fiction.

Suddenly he paused, book in hand, as a terrifying thought gripped him: he hadn’t checked on John lately. Okay, calm down, be rational, he must be still upstairs, statistically speaking he was likely to be fine—Sherlock took the steps two at a time and spun into John’s room, startling him. The teen was merely lying on the bed, apparently.

“I brought you these,” Sherlock announced, holding out two blankets, Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits, and a book on tropical diseases. It had seemed a more impressive offering earlier.

John had sat up quickly when Sherlock burst in—remember to knock next time, not used to living with someone else—and now took the items with a smile that was reasonably sincere. “Thank you,” he replied. His teenage stomach deduced that the container held food and he immediately consumed two of the biscuits. “These are really good,” he asserted, then quickly offered the tin to Sherlock.

Sherlock did not require fuel for the transport at this point, though he had to be careful not to neglect it during the exertions of heat. He shook his head. “Help yourself,” he encouraged John, who ate another biscuit. “Are you warm enough?”

“Yeah. Too warm, actually,” John admitted, with some embarrassment. Sherlock observed the light sheen of sweat on his face—it was called _heat_ , after all. Maybe blankets weren’t what he needed.

“You can take your jumper off if you want,” Sherlock suggested. Only logical, remove some clothing when too hot, but John squirmed uncomfortably. Removing clothing was often a prerequisite to intimate activity as well, which of course they would be engaging in soon—later—after they got to know each other a bit better—well, later today.

Other ways to cool down? “I’ll get you something to drink,” Sherlock decided, leaving abruptly. “You may wish to take a cool shower!” he called back as he pounded down the stairs.

What did one drink? Tea was out, being hot. Lemonade came to mind—where did that come from? Did one have to start with actual lemons? It was, at least, a fruit juice, which would provide John with vital vitamins and minerals. John needed his vitamins and minerals!

Sherlock opened the refrigerator and was momentarily startled not to see his jars of preserved specimens and perishable chemicals. Then he recalled Mrs. Hudson had insisted he move them to a mini-fridge in his spare room, so the kitchen fridge would be for edible items only. Including bottles of lemonade, which Sherlock seized upon.

He paused halfway up the stairs, frozen by a sudden thought—why had Mrs. Hudson been so insistent on making things ready for John a week ago? Had she somehow known he would be going into heat soon? The first time was usually unpredictable, wasn’t it? Well, narrow it down to a certain age range, factor in hereditary and developmental influences—

Sherlock realized he was still standing there on the stairs, holding the uncomfortably cold lemonade and depriving John of its powers, and he hurried on his way. This time he knocked on the door and waited for John’s invitation before entering.

Sherlock handed him the drink and watched closely until he’d consumed some of it. There was silence in the bedroom. John shifted awkwardly. “Thanks,” he said of the drink, long after the moment had passed.

“You need fluids to prevent dehydration,” Sherlock noted. “There are many beverages in the refrigerator downstairs. Or, there’s a sink in the bathroom, which is closer. Do you have a glass?” he asked suddenly. John could not drink straight from the sink after all, Mummy always said that was unmannerly. “I’ll get you a glass.” With this Sherlock thumped down the stairs again, retrieved a (clean!) glass from the kitchen, and raced back upstairs to knock—so inefficient, these manners—on John’s door again.

“Come in,” John allowed, and Sherlock presented him with the glass. “Cheers,” he replied, his expression somewhat tense.

They stood there for another long moment, Sherlock’s eyes scanning John to learn every detail he could about him—the mustard he’d eaten at lunch (splattered on his jumper), the low income his mother made do with (shabby clothes, shoelaces knotted rather than replaced when broken), the unusually large amount of writing he did by hand (knob on the middle finger of his left hand).

On one level, these bits of information were trivial, the sort of thing Sherlock noticed and dismissed about everyone, unless they were a corpse or a suspect. John was neither of those, of course, yet he was interesting anyway—Sherlock found himself _keenly_ interested in what he ate and what he wrote, and in providing him with more material comforts than his mother had. This was all extremely odd, not the least because Sherlock rarely bothered about material comforts for _himself_. But John should have better.

Why should that be? They’d only met twice. Mycroft had threatened to find an Omega _for_ him—shudder!—so Sherlock had claimed a preexisting contract and set one up with—well, John was _not_ the next young Omega he’d laid eyes on, of course. They’d crossed paths at the medical school where John’s advanced biology class was getting a tour—a good way to scope out Omegas with a modicum of intelligence, at least by some standards.

Thus _many_ young Omegas had passed in front of Sherlock, and he’d observed and calculated and judged each one, and he’d thought John Watson would be best suited to him, someone he could put up with for a while at least. And naturally John’s mother had been thrilled with this offer of financial gain for her eldest child.

So it was all very pragmatic, to get Mycroft to stop scheming over him, and while Sherlock hadn’t spent much time thinking about what would happen to John long-term, he supposed he’d be no worse off than a lot of Omegas whose first bond fizzled out—the rate of bond breakage being what it was these days—and perhaps even better, economically speaking.

Except right now, as Sherlock stood there staring at him, until John finally sat down uncomfortably on the bed, he thought maybe he would never want John to leave his sight again.

Ridiculous, impractical; hormones! There was Sherlock’s work, and John’s schooling—couldn’t stop _now_ , no matter what his mother insinuated—and things like going to the loo, where being out of one’s sight temporarily was considered the appropriate thing.

To prove that he could, in fact, leave the Omega, Sherlock turned abruptly to the door. “I’ll be downstairs,” he announced. “Do what you like.”

He thought about getting his microscope back out; too much trouble. Obviously he couldn’t leave the flat, like to visit the morgue or police station. He tried to do some research online, being quite interested in poisonous plants of the Canary Islands at the moment, but concentration viciously eluded him.

Instead Sherlock noted every creak of the floorboards above him, deducing what John was doing and thrilling at every hint that he might soon come downstairs. He could just _ask_ him to come downstairs, Sherlock supposed, and got up numerous times to do so and then sat back down, because he wasn’t sure what they would do once John was here. Well, _eventually_ , yes; Sherlock was not wholly ignorant on the purpose of heat. But one didn’t just invite someone downstairs, and then start snogging them and having sex on the kitchen table, writhing and moaning and—

Sherlock blinked, having lost a bit of time, and was surprised to realize he was still downstairs alone. The water was running upstairs; John was taking a shower. Sherlock cursed himself for missing the chance to envision John undressing according to the floorboard creaks—was that wrong to do? They were bonded now and John was in heat, in his house… in his shower, naked…

Sherlock put the laptop safely aside, certain it could not hold his attention now. These things had to be done properly. The Omega had to feel safe and secure, well provided for. Was John feeling well provided for? Well, Sherlock had given him food and drink, his own room and loo, and a book. One of many.

He texted Mrs. Hudson with a reminder to buy John more books and clothing, and things to put in his room. Her cheeky reply? ‘There’ll be time for that later, dear.’ As if! Time was of the essence, there was none to lose, and he almost went downstairs to argue with her. Everyone had to understand how important it was that John be _well provided for_.

But then the shower upstairs stopped, and Sherlock listened tensely as John dressed again and walked slowly back to his room, settling on the bed. As soon as the noises ceased Sherlock sprang to his feet and dashed up the stairs. John surely heard him coming, but he knocked anyway.

“Come in,” said John, his tone muffled. He was lying in bed with his back to Sherlock, hair damp, wet skin sticking to the pajamas and t-shirt he’d changed into.

Sherlock was not certain what to say, though saying _something_ had seemed so urgent a moment ago. “Will you come downstairs with me?” he finally inquired.

John hesitated, negatively. “Sorry, I’m not feeling very well,” he stated. “I think I’d rather take a nap.”

Sherlock approached him, the Omega scent strong, clean soap and freshly mown grass. “I think you will feel better if you come downstairs,” he suggested. Sherlock would, anyway.

John tensed, and Sherlock froze. “If it’s okay,” he said, with exquisite politeness, “I’d like to stay here and sleep.” _Alone_ , his tone added.

Sherlock had surely failed if his Omega did not want to be with him, did not feel comfortable with him! But Sherlock was nothing if not persistent in the face of failure. He took another step closer, one more—the room was small—and knelt down at John’s bedside, their heads level now. He closed his eyes and inhaled. When he opened them his mind was clear.

“John, you’re my responsibility now,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s my job—“ Too obligatory. “—my _desire_ to take care of you. Please come downstairs. I will make you comfortable—“ Somehow. “—and I think you will feel better.”

There was a long moment when nothing happened, and Sherlock wondered if he’d blown it, if he ought to just leave John alone. Then the Omega rolled over onto his stomach and scrunched himself around to look at Sherlock. The move was not elegant but somehow still endearing, and his eyes, such a deep blue, peered at Sherlock with a treasure chest of emotions.

“You smell nice,” John said, then blushed faintly, as though he hadn’t meant to say that.

“The Alpha scents may make you feel better,” Sherlock diagnosed, reaching a tentative hand up to John’s cheek. The teen inhaled against his palm and Sherlock felt his heart start to pound.

_Stay focused_ , he told himself fiercely. _Well provided for_.

“I’m very interested in… speaking to you, John,” Sherlock told him. He usually wasn’t, absent a murder. “I want to know things about you. The things I can’t tell by observing, which is a lot by the way, most people neither observe nor understand what they’ve seen, frightful idiots really—“ He was getting off-message, but luckily John smiled at him. Such a smile, the temperature in the room went up by ten degrees.

“You want to know about me?” John repeated, as if this was an amazing thing. Shouldn’t _everyone_ want to know about John? Only those with intelligence, Sherlock supposed, which was a stringent filter indeed. “I’m very dull,” John claimed modestly. “Very ordinary.”

“Now that is not true, John,” Sherlock corrected, a bit sharply. “You are obviously not ordinary, because I would not have chosen an ordinary Omega. Don’t insult me by suggesting otherwise.” He couldn’t articulate it right now, always the hard part—something about how intelligently John had examined the cadavers at the med school morgue, when others his age became uncomfortable. That sort of maturity was rare and appealing.

Sherlock sensed this might not be the appropriate time to give details. Those could wait until later, and he rubbed John’s cheekbone with his thumb, watching the Omega turn into it contentedly.

“Is there more lemonade downstairs?” John asked, in what seemed like an opening.

Sherlock sprang to his feet, his hand reluctantly leaving John’s skin. “Yes!” he announced. “More lemonade and other nutrients.” He cast around and gathered up the tin of biscuits. “Come on then. I’m not sure you’ve eaten enough. Did you drink all your lemonade from before?”

John scrambled out of bed, his former lethargy forgotten. “Yes,” he assured Sherlock. “Thank you for bringing it—“

Sherlock was busy shooing him out of the room, now eager to get him downstairs and continue learning about him, however one did that beyond mere observation—perhaps he could examine John’s reaction to certain tests or scenarios? That seemed logical. “You will need to stay hydrated,” Sherlock informed him, beginning a mental tally of how much John had drunk (not enough). He was going to need a new room in his mind palace, a very special one with John’s name on the door.

**

Sherlock held his chosen pill up to the light, as if any difference would be something so easily discernable. Well, most of the victims were panicking at this point, so perhaps their killer hadn’t thought that a necessary precaution. No; the man was clever, he’d thought of everything, Sherlock realized with a thrill. The only way to know was to swallow it. He glanced at the cabbie just in case, but his bland expression revealed little—anticipation, and satisfaction. But he was a dying man, that was the key—at this point, either outcome, life or death, might be appreciated, such that even the best reader of people might find his reactions ambiguous. Like Sherlock, he might find a thrill in the possibility of finally being outmatched.

Suddenly, there were pounding footsteps in the hall, and Sherlock felt a stab of disappointment—Lestrade had tracked them after all. Well, a police forensics lab could tell him whether he’d chosen the poisonous pill or not, he supposed, though obviously that was not the primal test, staking it all on his intellect. Life could be so crushingly pragmatic sometimes.

The cabbie reached for his fake gun, and then Sherlock heard his name being shouted, muffled through the door, and he realized the person who had found them was—somehow—John. Irritation: Lestrade shouldn’t have let the boy go off on his own! Concern: Was this killer a threat to him? Sherlock’s quick calculation said no.

“It’s just my Omega,” he explained rapidly. “I’ll tell him—“

“ _Sherlock_!” John burst through the door, youthful emotion and energy bound up in one too-small package. He saw the pill, the gun, and he didn’t slow down.

“John!” Sherlock saw the whole scene play out in his mind the instant before it actually happened, but couldn’t move fast enough to stop it. John flew at the cabbie recklessly, tackling him to the ground, sliding with him several feet across the smooth floor until stopped by a column. The gun went skittering away and John began punching the man, tears streaking his face.

For a moment all was chaos, then Sherlock jumped to intervene, pulling John away. The Omega was hysterical and Sherlock had to lift him bodily, tumble him away across the floor into some extraneous furniture. The cabbie lay motionless on the floor.

“John, John, calm down, it’s alright,” Sherlock tried to tell him. The boy threw his arms around Sherlock, clutching him tightly as if to ensure he never left John’s reach again. For a moment Sherlock thought maybe that was it, and they could have some peace as soon as John caught his breath; but then there were sirens, and more shouting and footfalls, and the police trampled into the room.

It was at that point Sherlock realized he’d dropped his chosen pill, cursing his poor reflex, and he could hardly turn to look for it with John clinging to him. He wanted to demand of the cabbie whether he’d chosen correctly, but Donovan’s authoritative voice was reporting him unconscious, and anyway there was still John, who Sherlock was beginning to realize was rather upset.

“Stop crying,” Sherlock told him. In retrospect that command never seemed to work. He scooted them off to the side, away from the hash Lestrade’s people were making of the (almost) crime scene, and turned John’s back on it. He didn’t like for his Omega to be upset, it trickled over into him, an unnatural tingle of anxiety that he knew wasn’t his own.

“Shh, John, calm down,” Sherlock tried again, using a more soothing tone. He pulled the boy close against him with one arm, letting him inhale the comforting Alpha scents; with the other Sherlock rubbed his back, his hair. John liked that sort of thing. “Shh, everyone’s alright.” Well, not the cabbie obviously, but Sherlock didn’t think John really cared about _him_.

“He was going to make you take that pill!” John relived, stuttering over the words in distress.

“What? Oh, no, it was a fake gun,” Sherlock replied, thinking this would be reassuring.

It was not. “What?” John’s head snapped up, face flushed with tears.

“Fake gun,” Sherlock repeated brightly. “Needed it to get the others to choose, but I knew it was a fake right away, and anyway—“

“Then why were you going to take the pill?!” John demanded. His eyes blazed in a way that made Sherlock question the once-unassailable logic of his position.

“Um, I wasn’t,” Sherlock claimed, in a tone that sounded false even to him. “I wasn’t really going to take it, I was just stalling for time.”

John did not believe him. And it made John very sad that Sherlock was lying to him, and even more so that Sherlock _would_ have taken the pill. For one crystalline instant Sherlock understood this, as clearly as if he’d had the thoughts himself, and then it all collapsed into a muddle as John started to cry again and fell heavily against him. This time Sherlock didn’t know what to say.

“Here, you alright?” Lestrade intruded. “Sorry, he got away from us,” he added to Sherlock of John, and the Alpha rolled his eyes. “What happened? Anyone hurt?”

“Let’s get up,” Sherlock encouraged John. “Come on—“

“Hey, what’s this?” Lestrade asked, taking John’s hand where the knuckles were bloodied.

Sherlock felt a surge of fury and grabbed Lestrade’s wrist. “Don’t touch him,” he growled.

“Okay, sorry,” Lestrade agreed quickly, letting the boy go. “What happened, though? He fall?”

“No, he—“ Sherlock paused to consider. “He _rescued_ me from the serial killer, which was more than _you_ lot could do.” John beamed at him for the praise and squeezed his hand.

“Well you did go off with the serial killer without telling anyone,” Lestrade tried to point out, but he could see logic was lost on these two. “Okay, go wait outside, alright? I will need statements from you both, don’t disappear.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this restriction but readily led John away from the crowded classroom. He didn’t go straight outside, however, but turned down a deserted corridor and suddenly backed the boy against the wall. “Are you alright?” he asked in a low voice, leaning in close.

John’s hands crept up his chest. “Yeah. What you told Detective Inspector Lestrade—“ he began tentatively.

“Well, I had it all under control,” Sherlock claimed, but with a hint of self-awareness this time that made John smile faintly. “You certainly _thought_ you were rescuing me, though.”

“What was with the pill?” John wanted to know. “That was the poison?” Sherlock started to back away, not feeling John needed to dwell on that, but the teen grabbed his collar and wouldn’t let him leave. “No, tell me.”

“He had two pills, one poison, the other not,” Sherlock explained briskly, as if this was no big deal. “He let his victims choose which one they took, but manipulated them into always taking the poison one.”

John blinked at him. “Oh. That’s rather horrible,” was all he could think to say.

“Yes.”

“I thought it would be cleverer, though,” he added, which surprised Sherlock.

“What? It _is_ clever,” he insisted. “He set out two identical pills, and four times people chose the poison one. He had to read them, know whether they’d take the one he offered or the one he kept for himself—“

John shook his head. “Just sounds like luck to me,” he claimed. “Four ordinary, terrified people who’d been kidnapped, thinking they had a gun on them? They could barely have remembered their own names at that point, let alone been worth playing some sadistic mental game with.” Sherlock frowned as, somehow, he felt his own brilliance being diminished. “He just seems like a nasty bugger.”

“Don’t use that kind of language,” Sherlock chided, for lack of anything else to say.

John hugged him suddenly. “He’ll go to jail, won’t he?” he wanted to know, sounding much more dependent.

“Of course,” Sherlock promised, wrapping his arms around the boy and kissing his temple. “Well, he’s got a terminal illness, he’ll die before he gets to trial.”

“Oh.”

“And listen, while I appreciate your rescue attempt,” Sherlock went on sternly, “for future reference, it’s rather dangerous to tackle someone who’s waving a gun around. It could easily go off in an unexpected direction.” Clearly John hadn’t thought of this and Sherlock felt him tense. “It’s alright, nothing bad happened this time,” he reminded the boy.

“What should I do instead?”

“Leave it to the professionals,” Sherlock advised.

“Would _you_ be the professional, then?” There was just enough cheek in his tone that Sherlock leaned back and looked at him, then abruptly swooped in to kiss him.

“ _Yes_ ,” he finally replied, when they took a breath.

“Can we go home now?” John asked, panting slightly. His hand crept up Sherlock’s neck to play with his hair.

“Ye—oh, Lestrade wanted to talk to us,” Sherlock remembered with disappointment. Giving statements to the police about criminals did not rank high on his list of priorities, but he knew Lestrade would only interrupt them later if they didn’t humor him. “Come on,” Sherlock sighed, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him back down the hall. “We’ll make it fast.”

**

Mummy—and Mycroft, d—n him—were waiting at the door to the estate when Sherlock drove up. “Now don’t—“ he started to order John, but the boy burst from the car as soon as it stopped and hurled himself (gently, somehow) at Mummy.

“Oh, poor thing,” she cooed immediately. “It must have been so traumatic for you!”

“It was, Mummy!” John complained, embracing the petite woman tightly. “He didn’t think of _me_ at all, just ran off with a serial killer to prove how clever he is—“

“And then you rescued him!” Mummy exclaimed as they went inside. She didn’t bother to greet Sherlock at all. “You actually _attacked_ someone to save your Alpha! That’s so brave!”

Sherlock watched them go with a frown. “I _did_ catch a serial killer,” he tried to point out. “He killed four people—“ They weren’t listening.

Only Mycroft was still standing there, and Sherlock would’ve liked to ignore _him_. “So, another case cracked,” he commented with a thin smile. “How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and left his brother on the stoop, searching for his Omega and his mother. He found them in the parlor, where Mummy was fussing over John’s wounded knuckles. “Oh, you must’ve been so scared,” she empathized.

John nodded readily. “I was scared for Sherlock,” he confessed, “when the police realized he’d left with the killer! And when we got to the building I could _feel_ right where he was—“

“Such a strong bond,” Mummy complimented.

“—and I ran away from the police, and then I saw Sherlock and the other man, and the other man had a gun!” Here John lapsed into silence, cuddled up against Mummy.

“It was a fake gun!” Sherlock protested.

Mummy stroked John’s hair gently. “Well John didn’t know that, did he?” she reasoned. “Poor thing, you just wanted to save your Alpha.”

“More than anything, Mummy!” John agreed.

“Can we get some tea around here, soon?” Sherlock requested sharply.

He had predicted Mummy was going to take John’s part in this, of course, but he always forgot how much that annoyed him. Yet, in some ways, it didn’t—some tiny corner of him found it pleasant that Mummy and John got on so well. It was a complicated feeling, and Sherlock hated those.


End file.
